


En Pointe

by FibonacciSequence



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Dance, Ballet, Because he only gets mentioned once, Big Bang Challenge, Did I Spell That Right?, Gon is a sunshine child, Illumi isn't a dick, It's not explicitly there, Killua is a pointe danseur, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Trans Character, Trans Killua, Trans Male Character, Unsupportive family, bad titles are bad, body negativity, but it can be taken to be hisoka/chrollo, hisoka deserves nothing, it almost didn't pull up hisoka/chrollo as a ship, it's 4am why am I tagging this right now, maybe a McDouble, or really intended, periods/menstural cycles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-10-28 16:44:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10835235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FibonacciSequence/pseuds/FibonacciSequence
Summary: *Written for the Hunter x Hunter Big Bang. Intended to be three chapters in length, but may be split up into four depending.*Ballet AU (No nen, no hunters, etc.)Killua is a boy, no matter what anybody tells him. It doesn’t matter if his mother calls him Kira, or if his father says that he’s his favourite daughter.  Hell, it doesn’t matter if he dances pointe and does better pirouettes than anybody in the advanced classes, it’s not like he’d be the only guy in history to do so.Sometimes it’s a little trying when nobody uses his preferred name or downright laughs at him. The mental strain he goes through every time he goes to class and can’t wear his binder while he’s dancing.He doesn’t care though, because he has his sister Alluka and his friend Gon to back him up. He knows that one day, the world will see him as he sees himself. Pointe shoes and all.





	1. The Part In Which Killua Thinks (A Lot)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first chapter here clocks in a little under 3k and makes up about 35% of the fic. It's also mostly filling an emotions, I hope you guys like eating the creme of the oreo first. (wow that's a bad analogy)

_Inhale._

  
_1, 2, 3, exhale._

  


He bent, willing his muscles to comply until they ached, phalanges nearly dragging against the smooth wood of the floor. He pushed further, shoulders tightening in their sockets until the tips of his fingers gave the slightest, feather light touch to his left ankles; then he grabbed, pulling himself the last few inches to wrap his hand around it. His right hand followed with slightly more ease, a bead of sweat rolling along his forehead. His back was pulled into a tight arc, tighter than he should take it if he were to be honest, and it took him a second to catch his breath and begin a slow count.

  
_1, 2, 3._ __  
  
As usual his back ached, protesting the extended stretch with tight pinches and itches. It never really got any easier, moving so extremely like this, and he imagined that it never would. And yet, the burn that settled in the muscles, that laced through his shoulders and down to his wrists, wasn’t too bad. He might even go as far as to say it was pleasant, a physical reminder that he was excelling. That he was doing something amazing, that most people could do, and that he was doing it well. 

  


_4, 5, 6._

  


His tongue flicks absently over his upper lip, moistening the dry expanse of skin for half a moment. Half a moment and then he's allowing his eyes to open for the first time since he began his stretches five minutes ago, eyelids fluttering. White lashes obscure his vision for a moment more, before electric blue irises are are able to scan the small section of room within their range. It seems as if everybody in the room is staring at him, eyes intense and judging as if they realize he doesn't belong there near as much as they do. One person in particular though hosts a different expression, Amber eyes nearly solemn, intensely longing framed by bits of dark green hair. Killua doesn’t know quite what that look means however, and so he looks away; it doesn't matter anyways.

  


_7, 8, 9._

  


If Killua could’ve been in the other boy’s head, could've buried himself between reasoning and emotion, he might have understood what the green haired boy was feeling. It was the kind of emotion only felt a few times in life, if at all; a feeling he probably wouldn’t have been able to understand himself if Gon (as the boy was called) had told him. The feeling of knowing you had met somebody similar to yourself, but so much greater, with so much more potential. Wanting to do anything within your power to be by their side, to be in their presence at all. Killua didn’t know it, couldn't have, but this was the exact moment that the green haired island boy decided that they would be friends.

  
_10._ __  
  


Letting go of his ankles Killua unrolled himself, ever so slowly allowing each section of his spine to realign, the muscles of his back to release their strain. He stumbled slightly as he finished uncoiling, his senses being forced to orientate themselves once more. He flexed his pale fingers for a moment, leftover specks of scratched off lilac nail polish glinting in the studio light; before reaching up to grab his shirt’s edge, pulling the fabric straight from where it had scrunched at his ribs, tugging it back over his stomach. His eyes glanced around the room for a second time as he did it, now able to sweep the entire space, passing shades of brown and green but not actually stopping to meet any of their gazes. 

  


No, it didn't feel as if he could consider anybody here a real threat in the audition, though a few of them looked much too full of themselves for danseurs. In that moment he told himself, firmly, that he would outdo all of them. He would claw his way to the top for a spot, would put every one of them to utter shame as adults. In the occasion it was determined he was too young for a spot, he would find another audition within the week, he swore it. No matter the circumstances he’s determined to get into a studio, to prove himself to his family.

  
_Calm down, Killua._ __  
  


Alluka’s voice fills his head, solidly as if she were actually next to him saying; her voice calm and smooth and so far different than his own internal monologue. He’ll succeed in proving himself to his family, he doesn’t need to stand here talking shit about his competition to make himself feel better, or more capable. The near daily strain of his mother calling, asking, “Are you ready to come home yet, Kira?” is already enough motivation for him to succeed.  He takes a slow breath and faces forward again, breaking whatever minor eye contact had been created. One foot is put in front of the other, and then he relaxes, slowly letting his feet pull apart on the slick flooring of the studio. He slides into the splits with a relative ease and smoothness garnered only by years of practice, thighs settling against the floor after only a few moments. 

  


His mother had introduced him to ballet at a young age, just a few weeks shy of four. At the beginning he had been to small to do anything more than jump around after the others and touch his toes, the youngest in the class by a decent two years. Despite this the early start had been a definite advantage for him, and by eight he was one of the top students in the pre-pointe class, right amongst the eleven year olds. I was in the last few days of summer, just before he was to begin his tutoring again, that his teacher took him and his mother aside to talk to them about starting him on pointe work. She said he was strong enough for it, that he would make his way to the top of that class in due time as well. She hadn't been wrong.

  
Back then Killua had absolutely loved his instructor’s voice. Unlike most people he knew, himself included, she didn’t speak Russian as if she had a deep and personal vendetta against it. Her tone was slow and subtle, as if she were romancing the language itself. Later in life, a handful of years past, he would come to learn that this was because she was French, he accent softening her words to suit her needs and making her consonants almost indistinguishable. Her voice was nothing like the smooth, peaceful monotone of Illumi’s Japanese, but it would give him a run for his money.

  


If he had been any older, had any more intelligence under his belt, he would’ve declined. Would’ve taken every factor into account, pros and cons, and weighed them fairly. Back then however, he had just been a silly eight year old; a child being convinced to make an irreversible decision by a woman with scarlet hair and an unusual voice. Falling for the charms of being told he was ‘strong enough’.  


  


In present, thirteen years old and full of salt, he regretted it. His feet were marginally smaller than average, his toes pressed together roughly from years of taping them and forcing them into slender shoes, his ankles sticking out slightly from dancing on pointe every day. He figured that the last two would have been eventual consequences even if he had waited to start dancing until he was twelve, like the rest of his peers. Now however, it was much too late to be regretting a childhood mistake.

  


"тупица."    


  


Killua muttered the curse to himself as he twisted his abdomen, pulling himself out of the splits, and pushing himself back to standing. At this point it seemed that everybody previously staring at him had decided it was boring to watch the kid who could bend backwards any longer, and had reinstated themselves into the previous activities. A cluster of women by the mirrors forcing their hair into tight buns that tugged on their scalps in a way that couldn’t be very healthy, and others scattered through the room doing their own warm ups. 

  


Killua figures that if he hadn’t been quite so small they wouldn’t have taken interest in him at all. 

  


Running a pale hand through his mess of white hair, he allows himself a sigh, shoulders sagging. He can’t very well constitute going into an audition as he is now; cargo shorts and a too-big Grave Of The Fireflies shirt. Ballet is just as much about appearance as it is talent, and walking in front of judges in street clothing is a suicide mission. Truthfully that’s his biggest issue with ballet, the clothing he’s required to wear; he looks stupid in all of it.  In his classes he was always required to wear the girl’s outfit, something he honestly looked too boyish for, but the boys outfit tended to make a fool of him. A year into puberty and unable to wear a binder while dancing means that he looks like a girl no matter which one he’s in, albeit not a very feminine one.

  


This is however an important audition, and he figures that every shred of confidence he can get will be a boost to his already dismal perception of himself and his unfortunate body. With that thought in mind he shuffles over to his bag, thumbing through the contents until he finds a gallon baggie with a solid M written on the plastic. White and black fabric shift inside as he tugs it out, standing up and leaving the grey backpack leaned against the wall. 

  


As he heads for the bathroom he analyzes the people around him, catching eyes with every person he passes for a brief second. Most of them seem confused or put off by his gaze, but one woman in particular smiles at him. It’s not a kind smile, rather the kind of sickening sweetness you show children when you know they’re going to fail miserable and act like you’re supportive. He brushes it off with a grain of salt, remembering the pirouettes she had been doing moments before, and shoulders open the bathroom door. He’s almost daring somebody to try and stop him, mentally. 

  


Nobody steps up to his mental challenge however, no negations vocalized towards him or insults cast about him that he can hear. Either nobody cares, or the binder he still wears is enough to convince them that he’s a boy. He is; a boy that is. Thanks to this he’s able to slip behind one of the curtains in the room with relative ease, dropping his Ziploc of clothing onto the carpeted floor. It was clear looking around the dressing room that it had at one point been a single open space. At some point however somebody must’ve taken the initiative to set up curtain rods, donned with navy blue for some minimal semblance of privacy. This interior design change had clearly been a good while ago if hair spray stains and sewing needles pinned through the dark fabric were any indication. 

  


Killua’s tee shirt comes off without hesitation, dropped against the carpet where it rests innocently, almost the same colour as the thick strands under it. His binder follows after a moment, a black, mesh half-length adorned with a front zipper so that he can get it on and off quickly. While shedding it causes him no physical pain, he is in mental anguish as it hits the carpet. For the briefest of moments he contemplates pulling the compression device back over his torso; saying fuck it all and going into the audition with his chest binded, but he isn’t nearly so stupid. It’s bad enough that he did his warm ups in it, mesh pulled uncomfortably tight with his larger stretches. To wear it any longer would be torture on his ribs, and he doesn’t need a bruise or a crack right now. 

  


Changing can’t be stretched out much longer, not when he doesn’t know the order in which people will be called into the audition room, so he shucks his shorts without further delay. Slipping out of his practice shoes takes only seconds, and then he’s tugging his clothes out of the baggie, letting them drop to the floor. It’s as he picks up his shirt from the top of the small pile that he realizes the presence of a package he doesn’t recognize. It was in the pile right on top of his tights, the two plastic packages slowly sliding apart and sending it closer to the edge of the pile. He doesn’t think much as he picks up the light package from where it’s fallen, but when his eyes flicker across the package he reckons it ought to weigh hundreds. It’s a white sports bra, a small green sticker on the corner of the plastic proudly proclaiming ‘compression’ in English. He’s almost embarrassed seeing the word, a memory flicking through his mind of scrolling through a binder website when he had just started learning English. Compression had been one of the first words he learned to recognize. A pink sticky note is pressed to the back, the corner of it curling in a way that tells him it must’ve been in the baggie since before he left Russia, nearly three weeks ago. It says ‘дурак’ in Illumi’s obnoxiously neat handwriting, and he doesn’t feel bad at all as he scoffs and rips the plastic open.

  


Even he himself has to admit that, like the note says, he’s an idiot for not already having one of these, for not thinking about such a simple solution. It’s not unexpected though, when he’s been too busy spending the last year pretending his breasts don't exist instead of accepting them and considering a fix. It takes him a minute to pull the tight cotton on, but once it’s in place he can’t resist a grin. It’s tight, but not in the way his binder is, and while it’s not a perfect fix he figures the near-flatness is the best he’s going to get without hurting himself. He’s lucky his chest is small enough for this to work, he’s read a few posts by another person who complains that their chest is so large even a binder doesn’t help. 

  


After he’s taken a second to admire it, he sets to getting his dance clothes on. A simple white tee-shirt that he tucks snugly into a pair of black leggings, and a set of a simple black pointe shoes in a condition much better than the off-white pair he had been practicing in before.

  


When he looks into the mirror, turning his torso to get a better look, he’s almost shocked to see that for the first time in a decent year, he really does look like a boy. He’s pale enough that his skin and the fabric of the sports bra look the same colour through the fabric of his shirt, and unless somebody’s distinctly looking for it they shouldn’t notice it’s presence. For once even his ponytail, fluffy and loose between his shoulder blades, doesn’t seem intent on giving him away, though he knows at least one person will figure he’s a girl because of it anyways. He considers as he slips out of the curtain, and then back into the studio that he’ll have to send Illumi some kind of thank you, as much as the thought pains him.

  
Man, does that thought pain him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuckwow is that Illumi not being an asshole? 
> 
> Also wow, multilingual characters. 
> 
> *WHOOPS IMPORTANT NOTE HERE*  
> I don't think I explicitly stated it (I might have in the beginning) but wow this takes place in Spain! While everything after the scarce Russian in this chapter is written in English, it's pretty heavily insinuated that NOBODY IS SPEAKING ENGLISH. The setting becomes a lot more prominent too.
> 
> The two lines in Russian mean dumbass and idiot respectively, if my friend's translations are to be taken to heart.


	2. The Part In Which Two Kids Meet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killua and Gon meet, and language barriers are annoying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this is late, and only a small section! I've had some stuff happening and fixing this up to post has been slow. The entire thing is written already, but I'm doing some heavy editing. Please bear with me. 
> 
> I'm going to post this in sections instead of three big chapters so that I can post more faster, so it'll have more chapters total.

Killua is firmly of the belief that only a complete miracle could have landed him a spot in the company, or perhaps even a complete accident. He had very nearly tripped on his way through the door, and his ponytail had smacked him in the face three times because he had forgotten to spot on his turns until the last second. He had gone in with the same arrogance and haste he jumped into everything with, and it had probably shown, which left only two options for how he had gotten in. They had overlooked those faults, or nobody else in the audition had outdone him. 

Regardless of exact circumstances, Killua finds himself standing outside the studio again two longs, anxiety-riddled weeks later. Two weeks of telling himself it must be a fluke after an audition like that, and that he'll get a call confirming his worries any minute. The call doesn't come though, and instead he gets a reminder text this morning from a number he doesn't recognise telling him that practice starts today. 

So now he finds himself outside of the building that may as well be the physical representation of all his hopes and dreams. His dance bag in slung over his shoulder, his skateboard propped up on edge by two fingers, and flakes of a discount chocolate miguelito still stuck between his teeth from breakfast. Shouts in Spanish and the occasional wisp of what he has learned to be called Catalan can be heard from the plaza a street over, and the air is heavily tinged with the smell of various foods. His eyes are trained on the building however, lips pressed together and distractions ignored as he mentally debates entering. Trying hard to make himself believe that he truly was accepted, that he had achieved the next level of his career and it isn't going to be snatched away from him. 

It's as he's willing himself to walk in, his left heel slowly lifting off the summer-heated concrete, that he is run into. It's more of a minor bump than a collision, but the other goes crashing to the ground at the feet of Killua, who has miraculously only stumbled slightly. 

The first thought to cross his mind is to yell, to get angry at the person for ramming into him, but the shout dies before it leaves his throat. It never stood a chance. 

When his balance is regained, and his eyes shifted to the the now floored individual he realises that he isn't capable of speaking at all. Staring up at him from the ground is the wildest set of amber eyes he’s ever seen; bright and full of a mischievous energy that he's almost certain only this boy alone must possess. It figures he would bump into such a unique (and cute) person on one of the most important days of his life this far, the universe is never kind to him. He couldn't just bump into a busy househusband or businesswoman who would leave him be quickly.

Without thinking too hard about it, he finds himself frowning and extending a hand, which is accepted with a grin that looks too big for the boys face and an excited “Thank You!” as he stands up. He doesn't look as if he was affected by the fall at all, shifting a backpack without care that something inside may be damaged. 

He takes a second to determine a response, picking what he's going to say. His eyebrows furrow together in a thoughtful was that probably looks more annoyed to the boy than anything, and when he speaks it's slow and harshly accented. It sounds more like a threat than the casual suggestion he had been going for.

“Watch where you’re going.”

Killua would honestly not be surprised if it happened that he was saying the wrong phrase entirely, but the boy isn't laughing at him so it can't be that far off base. Spanish is far from his first language and it shows in the way he speaks, equal parts unsure of himself and sure that he can't be wrong. Anything past basic conversation and purchasing food is a toss up whether he’ll understand, despite nights spent pouring over Spanish lessons online.

Russian, Japanese, and English take up enough of his language memory without stubbornly trying to force in Spanish. It's not an impossible task though, and living in Madrid definitely forces him to pick up words faster than he might otherwise, but the scarce month since he began studying isn't near enough time to commit a language to memory, even for him. (Well, he's sure it would be if he still had the luxury of studying for hours every day like he did with English, but he doesn't.) 

After a moment the boy chuckles awkwardly, as if unsure what to say to the albino staring at him, and scratches the back of his head. In that moment Killua is hit with the slightest sense of deja vu, which quickly morphs into remembrance, and finally understanding. This boy had been at the audition, the one who had been giving him the odd look when he was stretching. Killua can assume by his presence here that the boy passed the audition as well; either that or he’s some kind of masochist that enjoys watching people achieve things he had failed at. Killua doubts the second possibility.

The boy has a few inches on Killua, the white haired boy having to look up slightly to meet his eyes, but he doesn’t look like he could be more than a handful of months Killua’s senior. His hair makes him seem even taller, spiked upwards with what must be handfuls of gel and hairspray, and nearly glowing green in the early morning sunlight. The colour is much more vibrant than the subtle, near black green it had appeared in the studio two weeks previous, more than likely dyed again in the last few days.

His eyes light up suddenly, and his smile stretches across his face with excitement. 

“You were at the audition, right? So you must have passed then! I’m Gorane by the way, Gorane Freecs; but most people call me Gon! What’s your name?”

It’s disturbing how fast the boy can talk, a block of language shoved in Killua’s face with zero warning whatsoever. He picks the words apart as fast as he can, faster than he thought himself able, barely picking up the second half, except for the word Gon, too busy thinking up a snide remark to the first. Of course he passed if he’s here, he’d be on the other side of the country by now if he hadn’t. Remembering the name of the boy he’s undoubtedly about to be working with is more important than sarcasm though, so he bites his cheek and offers up his own name.

“Zoldyck Killua.”

“Well then Killua, let’s get inside!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What would Illumi think of this? 
> 
> I'm going to try to have the net section up by Saturday, but I'm sorry again if it's late.


End file.
